"Lord Peverell?"
Deria called again as she observed the enigmatic wizard.
Thaddues turned slowly, his expression inscrutable as his dark eyes locked onto hers.
"It is nothing, Princess."
"You seem distant," she noted softly. "Though you stand beneath the sun of Dorne, your thoughts wander far beyond our shores."
"My mind was merely elsewhere," he replied, taking a measured step forward. "My offer, however, remains unchanged. What you granted me upon my arrival in Westeros altered the trajectory of my life. I do not leave debts unpaid, Princess. Allow me to repay the favor to House Martell."
He paused, a faint flicker of soft concern softening his sharp features.
"Besides, I have no desire to see Princess Dareya shed tears over political ruin."
Deria's lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile.
"If it is her heart you seek, the Martells are more than willing to forge a marriage alliance with you. House Martell values strength, but we value loyalty far more."
"The time is not yet right," Thaddues said smoothly, dismissing the offer with a gentle wave of his hand.
His thoughts drifted briefly back to the prophecy of the Old Valyrian deity he had encountered, weighing the unseen threads of fate weaving across the realm.
"The world is changing, Princess. Faster than the lords of the Seven Kingdoms care to admit. I only hope you have the wisdom to see those changes before they sweep you away."
Before Deria could offer a reply, a piercing, metallic screech tore through the afternoon air.
It was a cry born of fire and blood—a dragon's roar, laced not with majesty, but with wild, volatile fury.
Deria's eyes widened slightly, her hand instinctively moving toward her neck, though she forced her composure to hold. She looked to Thaddues, searching his face for alarm.
"You are here," she said quietly, her voice steadying as she met his gaze. "So I shall remain at ease."
Thaddues offered a brief, approving nod.
"A wise choice."
Without another word, his form blurred, twisting into the air with the sharp, crackling snap of Apparition, leaving the chamber in absolute silence.
He appeared seamlessly upon the smooth, flagstone courtyard of Sunspear. The desert wind whipped around him, carrying the scent of ozone and hot iron.
A few paces away stood Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.
The Queen Who Never Was looked thoroughly stripped of her usual regal grace. Clad in her darkened riding leathers, her silver-gold hair wind-blown and unkempt, she stood frozen to the spot.
Her hands trembled at her sides, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Before her loomed Meleys.
The Red Queen's crimson scales glistened beneath the Dornish sun, her massive head snaking low to the ground. But she was not welcoming her rider.
Smoke billowed lazily from the dragon's nostrils, and a low, threatening hiss vibrated within her throat—a sound reserved for strangers and thieves.
As Thaddues stepped closer, the carpet of gravel beneath his boots crunching softly, Meleys abruptly snapped her head toward him.
Instantly, the dragon's hostile posture vanished.
The dangerous rumble in her chest faded into a low, subdued huff. Meleys lowered her massive head, her hostility melting away into quiet recognition. After a long moment, she coiled her immense body along the far side of the courtyard and settled there, deliberately turning her back on the Targaryen princess.
Rhaenys stood rooted to the earth, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
Slowly, as if waking from a nightmare, she turned her head to face Thaddues.
"What... what have you done?" she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her panic.
Thaddues walked toward her with unhurried steps, stopping just out of arm's reach.
"I have done nothing, Princess."
"Meleys no longer recognizes me!" Rhaenys snapped, the carefully crafted facade of the Crown's poised parley breaking entirely.
Fear, anger, and betrayal warred in her violet eyes. Her voice rose, sharp and desperate, echoing off the high stone walls.
"What sorcery have you used, Wizard? Do you truly seek to drag the realm into war?"
Thaddues stared down at her, a cold, dry chuckle escaping his lips.
"War?"
He looked past her, toward the dragon that had already chosen where it stood.
"You mistake pride for strength, Princess."
He closed the remaining distance between them, standing so close she could feel the faint, unnatural pressure radiating off his presence.
His eyes swept over her tailored battle suit—a silent testament to her intent before her dragon had turned against her.
Even without piercing her mind through Legilimency, her plan was pathetically obvious.
Thaddues cast a dismissive glance back at the slumbering red dragon.
"Dragons only obey the strong, Rhaenys. They care nothing for titles, birthrights, or the blood of Old Valyria."
He paused.
"If a beast senses that its rider is weak then even a bond forged over decades shatters in an instant."
The realization struck Rhaenys like a physical blow.
"If you truly wish to ride her again," Thaddues continued smoothly, his tone laced with subtle mockery, "if you are so eager to fly back to King's Landing... then by all means, attempt to tame her once more."
He tilted his head.
"Assuming she permits you to come within striking distance."
His dark eyes never leaving hers.
"Tell me, Princess... do you still believe the Iron Throne cannot fall?"
He let the question linger.
"Or have you finally begun to understand that even dragons are not beyond the reach of time?"
Thaddues raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the courtyard beneath Rhaenys vanished.
The ground dissolved into nothingness, and the warm Dornish breeze transformed into a roaring, icy hurricane.
Rhaenys felt her stomach plunge into her throat as she plummeted through the open sky, thousands of feet above a land she did not recognize.
Clouds whipped past her face, blinding her, deafening her.
Below her, the earth rushed upward at a terrifying speed.
Through the smoke and haze of a burning landscape, she saw it.
A massive crimson scaled dragon, broken and bleeding, spiraling helplessly through the air.
Meleys.
The dragon's wing was torn to shreds, dragonblood raining into the sky.
Entangled with her was a titanic, bronze monster.
Vhagar... that old bitch.
Her massive jaws were clamped around the Red Queen's throat like a vise.
Rhaenys tried to scream, but the wind tore the sound from her lungs.
She felt the dragon's violent, crushing agony as though it were her own. Dragonfire engulfed her in searing heat, while the weight of the sky seemed to collapse upon her, leaving only the terrifying certainty of death. The ground rushed upward, and the shattered stones of Rook's Rest rose to meet her.
I am dying.
Her mind screamed.
Snap.
Rhaenys gasped violently, her chest heaving as her boots slammed back onto the solid stone of the Sunspear courtyard.
The rushing wind ceased instantly. The stench of burning blood and ozone vanished, replaced once more by the scent of salt and dry earth.
She staggered backward, her knees buckling beneath her, and caught herself just before she collapsed.
Cold sweat drenched her neck and back.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, and her hands shook violently as she pressed them against her face, verifying that her skin was whole.
That her flesh was unburned yet it had felt utterly real.
The cold. The pain. The sickening horror of her body shattering against the earth.
It had been as real as the breath in her lungs.
She raised her eyes, wide and terrified, to look at the man standing before her.
Thaddues hadn't moved an inch.
He stood with his hands loosely folded, watching her distress with the cold detachment of a man observing an insect.
"Lord Peverell..." Rhaenys gasped.
Her voice was stripped of every ounce of pride, nobility, and defiance.
Her throat felt dry as ash.
"It was... it was my ignorance. I... I did not see."
"Indeed it was," Thaddues said quietly.
He turned his back on her without a second glance.
He began a slow walk back toward the shade of the archway, his black robes trailing smoothly over the stone.
"You would do well to reflect on what you have just witnessed, Princess."
He paused.
"Should you require more time to regain your composure, Dorne has plenty of it to offer."
With a soft crack that echoed through the courtyard, he vanished into thin air.
Leaving Rhaenys alone in the dust, cowering in the shadow of the dragon that no longer belonged to her.
In King's Landing, the oppressive heat of the capital hung heavy over the Red Keep.
The air was thick with the scent of sea salt, sewage, and incense, clinging to the high stone corridors like an unwanted cloak.
Queen Aemma Arryn walked slowly down the long, shadowed gallery of the royal sept, her hands resting gently over her swollen stomach.
Her steps was measured, heavy with the fatigue that accompanied her difficult pregnancy.
Behind her trailed a quiet, unassuming servant girl—a young woman in simple woolens, her head dutifully bowed, carrying a basket of dried lavender and tallow candles.
To the guards posted along the corridor, it was a routine sight.
The Queen was devout, spending long hours praying to the Mother for a healthy heir, seeking solace from the mounting anxieties that gripped the Red Keep.
Aemma stepped into the quiet sanctuary of the sept.
Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting vibrant pools of crimson, sapphire, and gold across the marble altar of the Seven.
She approached the statue of the Mother, sinking slowly to her knees upon a cushioned bench.
She closed her eyes, bowing her head as she whispered a silent prayer into the still air.
Behind her, the servant girl stopped.
The meekness she had worn like a mask melted away. She slowly raised her bowed head, her expression empty, her hazel eyes deepening into an unnatural shadow.
In silence, she put down the basket and lifted her two hands toward the Queen's back.
She began to whisper under her breath—not in the High Valyrian of the dragonlords, nor in the Common Tongue of the Septons, but in a guttural, ancient dialect that predated the arrival of the First Men.
As the final syllables left her lips, a thin tendril of jet-black smoke seeped from her fingertips, twisting through the air like a living serpent.
It drifted across the space between them, pooling around Queen Aemma's shoulders before silently seeping into the back of her neck and down into her spine.
Aemma stiffened as a cold shiver coursed through her limbs. Her eyes flew open, and for the briefest instant, the sclera turned pitch-black, reflecting the void that had seeped into her before fading back to their natural, gentle violet.
She blinked, rubbing her temples as a wave of dizziness washed over her. Frowning, she slowly turned to glance over her shoulder.
"Did... did something happen?"
"Nothing, my Lady. The drafts in the sept can be quite chill this time of day."
Aemma placed a hand against her belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic movement of the child within her.
"Yes... perhaps you are right."
Satisfied, the Queen rose slowly to her feet and made her way out of the sept, her mind consumed once more by the heavy burden of her duties.
The servant followed three paces behind, her head bowed.
A small, cruel grin touched the corners of her lips where the Queen could not see.
Once the Queen was safely returned to her chambers and surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, the servant quietly slipped away.
She moved through the servants' corridors with practiced ease before entering a secluded room near the lower vaults, bolting the heavy oak door behind her.
She brushed her fingertips across her cheek. The illusion unraveled in silent waves, revealing a tall, pale woman clad in midnight-black robes. Dark veins snaked along her neck and temples, glowing faintly beneath her skin.
She unrolled a strip of parchment and penned a single message.
Sealing the scroll, she summoned a raven with a low whistle and fastened the message to its leg. She watched in silence as the bird disappeared into the grey skies above Blackwater Bay.
Her task within the Red Keep was complete.
TBC
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